Room With a View of Something Debatable
by Luinramwen
Summary: While America was visiting, England decided to culture the boy a little in modern British cinematic productions. A mistake? Or a step towards regaining what was lost? If only America would shut up about Hollywood being better, it might be easier to try...


**Room With a View of Something Debatable**

Genre: General/friendship

Rating: PG-13, I suppose.

Characters: America, England; secondary Canada and Japan; brief mentions of France and Queen Elizabeth II.

Warnings: Language, irreverence. England being (England) a grouch, and making things unintentionally more serious than I had thought they needed to be. Um, and possible character defamation? I don't know. I suppose if you squinted hard enough you might see vague traces of pairings.

Disclaimer: Do not own. Characters only bear resemblance to living counterparts or other people through extreme coincidence. Characters' views do not represent my own.

Notes: Anyone who's already made the Izzard=England connection - you know who you are - is partially responsible here. Thanks, I will forever think of cross-dressing comedians when I think of England now. Anyways I was watching Izzard's "Room with a View" clip, and that should explain pretty much everything. Recently cross-posted from LJ. _Just_ edited for a few minor mistakes, because I'm picky like that.

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When America was visiting his house, England took him to the premiere screening of a film he'd been wanting to see for some time. He thought it would be nice. They were on relatively good terms at the moment, and it wasn't often he got to spend good leisure time with his former colony. America had been complaining about being bored; well, this should shut him up. Besides, he hated going to films alone and the only other person close enough to visit at a moment's notice was that bastard Frog across the Channel, and there was no way in hell he was going to invite France to the cinema with him. He shuddered to think of what the old pervert might attempt to do to him under the cover of darkness.

So he stood by patiently as America held up the snack queue, eyes flying from item to item, excitedly pointing and gesturing until the counter was full. He even paid for the mountain of snacks with barely a grimace as America rummaged through his wallet, then his pockets, and came out with five pence and a ball of lint, giving England a sheepish, hopeful smile as he did so. It was just a loan. And the film was about to start.

They had to squeeze past almost an entire row of already-seated movie-goers, England apologizing repeatedly for their troubles as America dropped bags of sweets and spilled popcorn behind him, trying desperately to balance his mountain in his arms. He said nothing much as America shoved about half of it into his own arms so that he could sit without dousing the person in front of him with extremely buttery popcorn.

The previews were already starting and people were shushing them by the time they reached the empty pair of seats that America had insisted on sitting in; England could all but feel their dirty looks and sense them wishing he would just go away or sit down already. He slouched into his seat, cheeks warm, but remained determined not to let anything ruin his nice night out. Even America didn't have that terrible of theatre etiquette, right?

America poked him in the shoulder before the title sequence had even had time to fade away. "Room with a View and a Staircase and a Pond?" he whispered loudly. "_Seriously? _You can't make a movie about that sort of thing. What did you trick me into coming to?"

England's face tightened involuntarily. "Shut up," he hissed. "It's called a drama. All the actors in it are very fine. Not every movie needs car chases and loud fiery explosions to be any good, you know."

He focused his attention back on the screen, and pretended that he hadn't heard America muttering, "Yeah, but it would be so much cooler if they did."

He was quickly absorbed by the plot and managed to forget all about America shifting restlessly beside him for quite a long while, fascinated by the subtle but powerful tensions and dynamic between the three lead characters, the quiet and serene soundtrack with moments of almost indiscernible dissonance and unease, the mastery of lighting and mood, taking even the brightest, sunniest day and giving it deeper meaning and levels.

It was every bit what he'd expected, and more, for the acting - the unspoken but intimate relationship between Sebastian and the quiet paranoid recluse, played out in matchsticks across a kitchen table; the intensity of Sebastian and Janine, young, and passionate, restless and trying to cope in a world that just didn't fit either of their sharp edges and corners, the way they clicked, so well, so occasionally, with each other; the respect and tightly controlled jealousy that lay between the recluse and the woman, a cautious circling like animals, instinctive and deeply socially mandated at the same time, wavering on an edge that presented no good alternatives - when America poked him in the shoulder again, impatiently. "Hey. Hey England -"

"It's _Arthur_," England snapped under his breath, trying to gesture at the people around them without being obvious. The last thing he needed was for some human to suddenly pick up on his presence here.

"Right, right." America almost sounded contrite. Not quite, but close. "You want some of my popcorn?"

"No, Alfred."

Silence but for the movie and America's crunching, which slowed down much faster than England would have thought possible. Perhaps America had been caught by the growing tensions between the three. Perhaps he'd been drawn into the story as well and was enjoying this too much to eat through it. Rain outside, in a pub scene - who was Janine talking to? Had he already been introduced and was he going to be important? He'd missed what might have been a crucial point thanks to America's interruption -

Poke, poke. England did his best not to slap his hand away. It wasn't proper, after all. This was a cinema, a public forum. There was Etiquette to be observed, which America was clearly ignoring.

"Seriously, Arthur, you can have some of my popcorn. I can't eat while I'm watching this sort of thing. This is like, anti-popcorn-eating city. Are you sure that you don't -"

"I said no."

Pause. England breathed a sigh of relief, and tried to pick up the plot again. Matchsticks shattering as they were swept off the table and hit the floor. Oh sod it, he'd missed yet another plot point! Why had he ever thought it was a good idea to have an evening at the cinema with this idiot anyways?

"You're completely totally sure? Because it's getting cold, and cold buttered popcorn is really kind of -"

_"Shut up!" _England hissed. "I don't want any of your damn popcorn, all right? You wanted it, you eat it. It's not my problem. Now shut up, and let me watch the film in peace."

He was pretty sure that America was pouting beside him for a good ten minutes before mounting another attack on the snack pile, wrappers crinkling loudly in a still moment onscreen, and England did his best to ignore it. He'd known the film wasn't exactly to America's taste. But the acting was so good that he'd thought that it was worth a try. Clearly, however, his companion was bored out of his skull, shifting restlessly in his seat and fiddling with wrappers the entire time. He should have known better than to try to culture the boy _(still and always 'the boy' to him, in moments like these)_; America had always gone his own way, no matter what England wanted.

Poke, poke.

"Arthur, do you want some of these lemon drops? They're delicious."

"For the last time, no!"

Ten minutes later, another poke from America signaled England's attention away from the balance shattering like matchsticks once again, jolting him back to reality.

"This is stupid, why can't you English ever manage to finish an entire sentence?"

Another ten minutes later, America was poking him in the shoulder once more and whispering loudly while a very important, very awkward conversation was taking place on screen; it was impossible to listen to both, and America's voice was _right there_, and rather more piercing.

"You know, I don't get why he can't just outright say it. You English are too prudish, always talking around things that don't matter as much as you think they do. I mean, how hard is it to just say it? If someone doesn't, where's the space for the happy ending?"

People were shushing them. He'd totally lost the thread of the film due to the distracting idiot beside him. He was too annoyed with America's constant interruptions to consider politeness right now, though.

But even so... it was a valid, if very typical, question for America to ask. America always saw the world through rose-tinted glasses. He'd be better served by an ordinary pair, but he was damned if America had ever paid one ounce of attention to him when he attempted to explain for the hundredth time at least how things actually were.

"Sometimes," he said through gritted teeth, doing his best to explain without too many insults, "there's just no room for happy endings. The characters do it to themselves. They think they know what they want when they don't, or they know but go about it the wrong way, and no _deus ex machina _can put it back in place no matter how they might wish it could. You can't set the past right, you know, you bloody prat." Damn, so much for the insults. It was because -

It was because it had, he realized, gotten too personal too quickly. Somehow it always did. He tried so _hard_ these days, to just let it all go, but he never succeeded. Maybe it was in the rain. The god damned rain that even poured down the windows of the pub that Sebastian had escaped to in a vain attempt to put the broken matchsticks of their balance back together.

America was silent for another minute, crunching on something in the dark.

When he spoke again, England could hear his voice muffled by whatever it was in his mouth. "I don't know about that," he said. "Maybe they're just not trying hard enough."

America was absolute rubbish at reading the atmosphere, England knew. Still, England had to bite his lip against the burning in his eyes; the anger in his chest faded slowly to ash, replaced with something he wasn't sure he had a good word for - wasn't sure that any language did.

For the first time in a long time, he found himself half-wishing that America, in all his obliviousness and idiocy, was right.

He didn't really hear or see much of the rest of the film. It was an inconvenience, but he guessed he would just have to wait until it came out on video.

England knew he was asking for it when he asked America what he'd thought of the film on the cab ride back to his place. The boy had no taste. Clearly his stupid question demanded a stupid answer, like_, Where was all the action? Nothing happened_, or_ I wanted to fall asleep but you wouldn't let me_.

Ugh. This had been a stupid idea all along. He should have known better than to take America anywhere. He would have been better off with France, who could at least appreciate good tension, acting, and plot when he saw it, even if that meant that England would have had to bring the tazer with him to keep the bastard on his own side of the armrest.

"Actually, it wasn't too bad," America said. "Could have used a little more excitement, but not bad considering it wasn't one of my movies."

Was that a grin? That arrogant little bastard.

"_Your_ films? Have you looked at the rubbish your Hollywood has been producing lately? Predictable plots, rampant stupidity, cliched gags and characters, no originality whatsoever -"

America laughed, loudly, and brought one hand down on top of England's head, messing up his hair deliberately because he knew he hated it. "You're so stuck-up, Arthur old man," he said, and England resisted the urge for random acts of violence, barely, remembering the sound of his voice in the dark, soft and somehow made strange: _Maybe they're just not trying hard enough._

Maybe.

-

When England went to visit America's house, America dragged him enthusiastically out of the house one night in the middle of a cup of tea, to see a film that he'd already invited 'all his other friends' out to.

Canada and Japan met them there. Canada was easier to see these days. He'd left Kumajirou at home, it seemed, and wore a bright red hooded jumper with a maple leaf on it, as though to actively dare someone to mistake him for his brother now. Japan bowed politely to England as America introduced them, somewhat needlessly.

_Are these really the only friends America has left?_ he wondered, then wished he hadn't, because the thought was making him feel almost a little sorry for him.

"What movie was this again?" Canada asked, as the queue shuffled slowly forward. England took a swallow of the tea that he'd barely had time to pour into a thermos, thinking now that maybe he should have spiked it with something a little stronger before they'd left. All America had been able to talk about on the way there was how amazing it was going to be, which, England knew far too well, meant car chases and explosions and all manner of nonsense of that sort with very little plot to speak of.

"Oh, it's totally awesome," America enthused, once again reinforcing England's resigned guess. "It's called _The Room with a View of HELL_!" He gestured to a luridly coloured parody of a film poster on the wall behind him.

England spat out his tea in shock. Oh, no, he hadn't.

Had he?

He had. The insufferable git really had.

"Oh," said Canada, squinting to read the subheading. "_Staircase of Satan... Pond of Death_. Uh. That sounds... uh... nice." It was clear he was trying. America at least seemed convinced, or chose to ignore the over-politeness of his brother's tone.

"Kiku helped with all the special effects," America bragged, throwing an arm around the shoulder of a now deeply red and uncomfortable-looking Japan, who shrugged the arm off as soon as was polite.

"I'm going home," England said, and had almost made it to the door before America tackled him and dragged him back inside in a headlock.

"Let _go_ of me, you stupid git!"

"Hey, hey, you're not going anywhere until you've seen this movie, Arthur!" America said, sounding abominably upbeat about it. "You never watch my movies, so just for once, sit down, sit back, and _chillax_, got it? You'll like this, I just know it!"

"What in the name of the English language is _chillax_?" England asked petulantly, but no one seemed to hear him.

He was dragged unceremoniously into the cinema as the queue moved forward, trapped very tightly by America's grip on his shoulders and collar. If he wanted to escape, he would have to leave his shirt behind. In his delinquent days, he would have done it, torn loose, and run off into the night half-naked, bugger all propriety and the sensibilities of the people around him. But he wasn't that person any more. His face burned. His shoulders slumped, and he allowed himself to be passively led to a seat. At least it would only be for a couple of hours...

Japan sat on the far side of America; England was sandwiched between his two former colonies, although at least Canada looked a little sympathetic to his plight.

"I'm sure it's not that bad," he whispered to England. "Alfred really does have some good movies in his house." He paused for a moment, probably trying to think of an example before giving him a sheepish glance. "Um, really."

"That's very reassuring," England told him, and Canada flushed pink at the bite of sarcasm in his voice. He felt a little bad. The boy was trying to maintain the faith between them, that was all, which was more than America had ever done. Just when he thought they'd reached some sort of new understanding, the idiot boy had to go shatter his belief all over again. Eventually, he would remember that it was fruitless to even try. "I suppose that -" he began, before being shushed loudly by America.

"It's starting!" he said, excitedly.

Within the first five minutes, England was no longer wishing he'd spiked his tea. He was wishing he'd gotten so severely drunk beforehand that he wouldn't have to remember any of this travesty.

America was shoveling popcorn into his mouth like there was no tomorrow; at least, England thought sourly, he could hardly hear the crunching and munching over the sounds of the explosions and gunfire on the screen, and buried his face in his hands.

There went all the beautiful delicate tension, as fine as the strands of a spider's web, torn away by bullets and sleek black and silver guns that were sometimes aimed at the enemy (_Space monkeys_, for Pete's sake; when England had seen that, he'd had to leave his seat and go out into the hall in order not to strangle America where he sat. Bloody fucking _space monkeys_) and sometimes at each other. All the carefully balanced dialogue was thrown out the window in favour of profanity-strewn verbal diarrhea, and there was no love, no talent, no beauty, just violence and explosions and -

And America had just bent to scoop up what he thought was part of his snack pile resting on top of the seat in front of him, and bit down only to spit it out immediately. "Ow, fucking handbag!" he gasped, and rubbed his jaw. "With a _brick_ in it!" He reached forward and tapped the shoulder of the old lady sitting directly in front of Arthur, whose things were piled in that seat. "Hey lady, here's your purse back, sorry about the bitemarks -"

She turned around, and England gaped soundlessly, almost wheezing in shock.

"Oh, never you mind, Mr. Jones, dear, this wasn't one of my best handbags anyways," she said, almost cheerfully, eyes twinkling even though face and posture retained their formal elegance. England shrank back in his chair, but of course it was too late. "Oh, Sir Arthur, you're here too? Isn't this _exciting_?"

England couldn't say a word, just mouthed the air like a drowning fish. There was no way this was happening.

"He's so thrilled he can't even speak right now," America said, and England didn't know what he wanted to do to get vengeance for that, but it was so overwhelming he seemed to have stopped thinking altogether.

"Well, your people have done a lovely job here, Mr. Jones, I hope that the sequel will be just as absorbing -"

England had to leave. There was no way on earth that he could sit through a conversation about an _action sequel_ between his Queen and his _very_ former colony.

-

Canada caught him outside about half an hour later, before the credits, which America had apparently insisted on sitting through with Japan so he could show the already-bewildered man exactly where his people had been of such assistance.

"That was interesting," Canada said.

"That was a mockery of a fine original film," England said sharply.

"Mm." Canada dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he made the non-committal sound.

"Don't tell me you enjoyed this - this - utter claptrap?"

Canada shrugged. Blew out a breath that curled white through the chill autumn air. "His country's done better," he said, slowly, "but it was still interesting. Do you know what I mean?"

"No," England said, ears burning.

"Wasn't the original yours?" Canada said innocently, after a long moment of silence.

"Yes," England growled. That was why this burned so much. Couldn't Canada see that?

"I liked it when I saw it," he said mildly. "And I guess Al did too." Before England could furiously interrupt and deny that, he added: "You know, it's still the same story even if the outward appearances have changed. Did you notice that?"

England stopped himself for a moment. He was chagrined to realize that no. No, he hadn't even thought about that. He'd been too humiliated and angered by the diversions, by the presence of his very own _Queen_, to notice the parallels. Was it true, or was Canada just trying to smooth things over like he always did? "So?" he demanded.

Canada shrugged, dug his hands deeper into his pockets. "So?" he returned, and England glared at him for a moment for being so... so non-confrontational and so damn obtuse, before twisting open his thermos again to check if there was any more tea left. There wasn't. He scowled again, screwed the lid back on, and returned it to his coat pocket. He would make America get him a new pot on when they got back.

"Thinking of new movies..." Canada said, breaking the silence after a long moment of letting their breath steam at silent syncopated intervals into the gloom. "My people are showing one you might like right now. Plot, drama, acting, all that. A dysfunctional family story, I guess, but not really a feel-good family-oriented show. Critics are already suggesting it's going to be a sleeper hit over here... why don't you and I watch it the next time you come to visit, eh? I promise it won't be as blatantly action-centred as Alfred's movie was."

Crooked grin. England found himself responding, wryly. It had been a long time since he and Canada had had much in the way of one-on-one time, former colony though he was. He'd always been concerned with... other things. They'd parted ways cordially, maintained a decent relationship, but Canada wasn't what America was - _had_ been - to him, and they both knew that.

Still.

"That would be... nice," England said, a little hesitantly. "Yes. I'd like that."

"Good," Canada said cheerfully. "I'll let Al know we have a third for our movie night, then."

"... Excuse me?!"

Canada's chuckle was almost sly, even as he turned and waved America and Japan over to them as they exited the cinema side-by-side. He, too, was absolute rubbish at reading the atmosphere, England decided, and wondered where his reputation for mediation could possibly have come from. Certainly he'd never have picked up such skills from _him_.

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Notes:

Obvious references are obvious?

_"They were on good terms at the moment": _by which I mean sometime post-2001, to keep it current.

_"Are these really the only friends America has left?": _To a certain degree, yes. According to the profile notes, only Japan and England are his constant friends - but I count Canada in there because, as we've seen from the comics, they're pictured as brothers who act like... well... brothers. Which includes a certain built-in friendship even as it also involves occasionally/often wanting to kick each other in the face.

_"They'd parted ways cordially, maintained a decent relationship": _Canada gained independence from England pretty much just by asking nicely and waiting for an opportune moment, though it maintained close ties for quite some time afterwards (1980s).

_"You know, it's still the same story even if the outward appearances have changed.": _I don't really know much about how true Izzard's claim is about America taking England's films and upping the budget and adding things in; but I do know that it is America that's largely responsible for different, sometimes very modern, movie interpretations of Shakespearean plays, setting them in much more modern eras or just elsewhere.

_"smooth things over like he always did"; "reputation for mediation": _Canada doesn't have much in the way of an army, size/equipment-wise, but it's at least well-known for its peacekeeping forces.

Lastly: "Imitation is the highest form of flattery." Psychological studies and developmental behaviourists say that children often imitate the behaviour, likes, and dislikes, of the people they're especially close to/fond of. ... Oh Iggy. Now who exactly fails at reading the atmosphere, again?

-


End file.
